


Consequences Are a Choice

by valda



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Parenthood, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:12:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valda/pseuds/valda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Earl Harlan is a father now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequences Are a Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/gifts).



> This was written in response to a prompt from [this list](http://cosleia.tumblr.com/post/118045298623/peekbelowthesurface-send-me-a-number-and-two). Jathis chose #57, Sacrifice, with Roger and Earl. My response ended up being a bit longer than a drabble...

Earl Harlan had always had plans.

He'd had plans back in high school, plans that culminated in a long night alone with Cecil Palmer after their graduation party. But he'd been too scared to go any further than simply nudging himself closer to his best friend as they lay there in the grass coming up with as many raunchy things to say about the moon as they could.

He'd had plans after high school, but then Cecil had gone to Europe, and when he came back he was older, distant, an ominous voice on the radio. And Earl was still 19. Cecil kept getting older, and Earl kept on being 19.

Finally, finally, when he'd suddenly snapped into the age he thought he should be, an age close to Cecil's, swimming in disorientation, reeling from the sudden addition to his life of a house and a dog and a child--a _child_ , of all things--he'd started to plan again. But then Frankie and Barty had made Eternal Scout, and he was terrified...and all he could do before he was dragged away was stupidly offer feelings that Cecil wasn't ready to receive.

He'd always had plans, and his plans had never worked out. But now he was back. He was here. He was home. He had a new profession, a profession that gave him a new way to spend time with Cecil. Somehow, he had yet another chance.

And so, as he always did, he started making plans.

He had a child.

Who even _was_ this kid? What was his name? What was he doing in Earl's house? Why did Earl _have_ a house?

He'd been a 19-year-old scoutmaster for so very, very long, and then suddenly he was a middle-aged scoutmaster with a son in his troop. For decades he'd been an older brother figure, especially to the teenage scouts. But now he wasn't that at all. He was...a father figure.

He was a _father_.

It was confusing.

The boy's uniform had his name written on one of the inside tags, in Earl's handwriting. Unfortunately, that name was "Harlan," not whatever the kid's first name was. Earl had written "Harlan" on everything the kid owned that needed labeling.

It looked like Earl was at least a conscientious father, but a scout should always be prepared, and it annoyed him that the Earl who had done all these fatherly things, the Earl who was apparently Earl's past self but who Earl couldn't remember in the slightest, hadn't been prepared for the possibility of not knowing his son's name.

He'd consider the oversight evidence that his new life wasn't really his life at all, that this was not his house and not his dog and not his child, that it was someone else's life, someone who _wasn't_ always prepared...but objectively, he had to admit that he never would have anticipated not knowing the name of his own son. He could be angry at himself for his unpreparedness all he wanted; that still wouldn't make it false.

So there was that, and then there was the fact that the boy was his spitting image. Also, the house was filled with photos of the two of them together. The kid was his. That was just how it was.

They hadn't talked much. Earl worked late at the restaurant, so on weekdays he only saw the boy in the mornings before school. By the time he got home at night, the kid was asleep. Earl took Thursdays off for Boy Scout meetings, but between planning and running them, he didn't actually interact with his son much more than he did the rest of the troop. Thursday dinners were often fast food eaten in the car on the way home. Earl worked Saturdays and part of the day on Sunday too; fortunately the kid had some school friends he'd go spend time with on those days.

Sous chef didn't seem like a great job for a single parent. It was a demanding profession that didn't leave much time for anything besides work. Earl wasn't sure why he'd chosen it, or even when he'd studied to be a chef. But it paid well, enough for the house and Earl's car and clothes and food for himself and the boy and the dog. And the boy seemed to be all right with not seeing Earl much. He was pretty self-reliant. That was a good thing, in this town.

Earl really _should_ know his son's name, but he was so mystified by the fact that he didn't that he wasn't even embarrassed when Cecil asked him about it on the air.

It occurred to him days later that he should probably ask.

~

"Have a good day at school," Earl said automatically one morning, automatically handing the boy a lunch he'd packed automatically, the routine as perfect as if he'd been doing it every morning for years.

"Thanks," the boy said, also automatically, taking the brown paper bag and sliding it into his backpack. He shouldered his rifle and checked that his bowie knife was secure in its leg sheath, then turned toward the door, glancing back at Earl. "Bye."

"Hey, hold on," Earl said suddenly, forcing himself not to grimace. The boy stopped, turned, gazed at him with eyes that were mirrors of his own. "Um," Earl said. The boy cocked his head slightly to the side. "Have a good day," Earl faltered.

"...Thanks," the boy said again, blinking. His face was smooth, blank.

Earl felt heat rushing to his face, and it wasn't embarrassment. The tingling spread further, down his arms, and he found himself clenching his fists. "Come straight home after school," he said stupidly; it wasn't like Earl would even be here then.

"Okay," the boy said, not in an agreeable way, not in a snide way. Not in any sort of way at all.

Earl gave up. "Bye," he said.

~

Weeks of mornings passed, all the same. Earl stared at his son's expressionless face across the kitchen table and willed something, _anything_ to appear there. Nothing ever did.

He tried again one Sunday when the kid had elected to stay home and watch television. "Hey," he said. The boy turned his unblinking stare from the TV to Earl. "Er." Earl looked away. "What are you watching?"

"A cowboy movie," said his son in a noncommittal tone.

"Oh," Earl realized, glancing at the TV, "that's one of Cecil's favorites." He smiled. "Lee Marvin _is_ the greatest living actor in America." He turned back toward the couch and his eyes snapped to the boy's, which apparently had remained glued to Earl's face. "Did I name you after Cecil?" he hazarded suddenly.

The boy finally blinked. "Does 'Cecil' have another name?"

"Gershwin?" Earl said, stuffing his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing the mid-century modern floor lamp next to the couch and flinging it across the room in nervous frustration.

"Then I guess not," the boy answered, maddeningly flatline. He turned his cool eyes back to the television.

~

The question of his son's name was distracting, and work took most of his time and energy, and Earl realized he hadn't put much thought into his plans. He hadn't done that many cooking segments with Cecil; the last one hadn't been very encouraging, as Cecil was still mooning over the scientist who'd abandoned him, and so Earl had opted to be supportive, and then they hadn't really spoken since.

If Earl didn't have this kid, he wouldn't have to have a high-paying job that took all his time, and he could put his attention where he really wanted it to be. As it was, he was just barely making it through the day-to-day.

 _Why_ did he have a kid? Who did he have a kid _with_? What was his life now?

Earl had something else to worry about too, and that was his troop. Just because he could no longer relate to any of the kids didn't mean he didn't want to do good by them, to help them through this vital part of their lives. He and Cecil had survived their childhoods in large part due to their own scoutmaster.

He figured it was time to start running his pre-teen scouts through the procedure to get their Advanced Siege-Breaking badges. His son was about the right age for that, he thought. He wasn't sure. The boy did seem to have the amount of badges a kid around twelve would have. Maybe a few more.

He rented out the rec center for the first practice run, as its fortifications were perfect for classical techniques. Modern tactics were important, of course, but Earl had a soft spot for the ancients. There just wasn't as much drama when artillery was involved.

Science, he mused, ruined lots of things.

"The opposing army's goal is simple, and their strategies are basic," he lectured the boys. "The goal is to get through your defenses. So they'll try to destroy your fortifications, and they'll try to cut off your food supply. They have you at a disadvantage. There's nowhere for you to go. But you have the high ground, so to speak. You have walls, and you have weapons. You're not defenseless. With the right tactics--and some luck," Earl added, because he was always honest with his scouts, "you can outlast them, break the siege. And that's what this badge is about.

"First off, does anyone have any ideas about what tactics an opposing army might use to break into the rec center?"

Earl's son raised his hand--not eagerly, not reluctantly. Emotionlessly. "Their first step would be to completely surround it, to try to block us from escaping or interfering with their next steps. Then they'd have to rebuild the bridge across the moat, because we would have burned it when we realized we were under siege. They'd be vulnerable to an aerial assault during construction.

"Assuming they managed to complete the bridge, they'd next need to get into the building," the boy went on. "They'd know we would heavily fortify the main entrance and the fire exits. If they're limited to classical weaponry, they might not bother with those entry points, but they might use battering rams. None of the windows are on ground level, so for those they'd bring ladders. Maybe they'd try to get to the roof. Of course, the whole time they'd have someone attacking our bloodstone wards. Probably a group. Those would be important enemy combatants for us to identify. We'd also have to deal with siege engines like catapults."

"That's--that's very good," Earl said.

"The longer the siege lasts, the more likely they'll use long-term tactics like mining, digging at the foundation to weaken it. They might also use fire," his son continued. "There are other tactics beyond a simple assault. They might offer to negotiate with us. They might send a peace offering that turns out to be a trick. They might offer us poisoned food that we eat because we're starving."

Earl noticed in the periphery of his vision that the teenagers who'd already won their Advanced Siege-Breaking badges and who were supposed to act as the invading army in today's exercise seemed to be listening very intently. He smirked at them. "Justin," he said, "why don't you take your army to the gym and work on invisibility until we're ready for you?"

Once the teens had shuffled off, Earl smiled at the pre-teens. "So, he's right--" Earl managed not to cringe at the point where he should have said his son's name "--that these are all tactics an invading army might use. And it's pretty likely that _our_ invaders will use those tactics today." The smirk came back, twitching at his lips. "Now. What do you suppose can be done to stop them?"

The boys set to nudging each other, debating, speaking up with ideas. He'd thought his son, who he'd just discovered was impressively well-versed in sieges, would have something to contribute, but the boy just stood there staring at the ground, his face utterly blank. He didn't speak to Earl for the remainder of the exercise, though Earl did spot him whispering to his comrades now and again as they scurried back and forth from watchtower to trebuchet to front line wall, hurling boulders and sporting equipment at the attacking teenagers.

Other than his son's odd attitude change, the activity went quite well; Earl was confident he could move the boys up to more accurate ranged weapons next time. Perhaps even gunpowder.

Earl had taken the day off for the exercise, so that evening he made chicken cacciatore and ate with his son at the dining room table. The dog, quite well trained, lay at Earl's feet. She snuffled every now and then, but did not beg.

About halfway through the utterly silent meal, curiosity got the better of Earl, and he laid down his knife and fork. "So," he asked, "how come you didn't say anything about siege-breaking tactics?"

The boy glanced up at him, quickly, like a startled bird. Earl thought he saw a flash of _something_ in those deep eyes, but it was gone in an instant, and the boy looked back at his plate.

"I dunno," he said.

Earl rubbed his jaw, then scratched absently at his beard and mustache--things that were also new to him, apparently part of being a middle-aged man. He liked them well enough. They seemed to fit.

"Your siege theory was top notch," he said. His son picked at the chicken on his plate with his fork.

After a moment Earl realized no further conversation was forthcoming. He retrieved his silverware and continued to eat. Dinner was silent once more, with nothing but the sounds of metal on ceramic and quiet chewing to mark the presence of man and boy in the room.

The boy rose when both their plates were clean. Before Earl could say anything, his son was collecting their dishes and utensils and carrying them to the kitchen, the dog following at his heels. Earl heard the water running. It occurred to him that this was the first evening meal they'd shared at home--the first one he could remember, anyway. Was dinner always like this? Was doing the dishes after dinner his son's chore?

After a moment he stood from the table and moved toward the short passageway leading to the kitchen. Leaning at the entrance, he watched for a few minutes as the small person he was somehow responsible for stood at the sink, scrubbing the evidence of their meal away. The dog lay at the boy's feet, her mouth slightly open in a pant that looked oddly like a smile. She gazed at the boy, sparing Earl the barest of glances.

The boy finished washing the plates and silverware, setting them into the dish drainer, and moved on without hesitation to the sauté pan and the serving platter.

"Thank you for cleaning up," Earl said.

The boy jerked a bit, looked back at him in surprise. Earl thought he saw him start to smile, but his son's face settled on an expression that looked more like confusion than anything else. Earl eased awkwardly away from the wall. "Well," he said, "I'll just be in the living room. If you need me."

The boy nodded and turned back to his suds. The dog snorted.

~

Two weeks later on a Saturday night, Earl dragged himself home at 3 o'clock in the morning and was glad he didn't have to start the next day's prep at 6. There was no lunch service on Sundays, thank the Spire. He might actually get a full night's sleep.

He was making his way silently down the hall when he heard a brief, high-pitched noise ring out from the direction of his son's room. A cry? He had already changed direction to investigate when the dog appeared in the boy's open doorway, brilliant eyes drilling into Earl's as if to tell him to _come_. The dog whirled abruptly and disappeared into the darkness of the bedroom.

Earl shifted from a walk into a swift stride.

The room was dark, but moon and starlight spilled across the bed from the window, enough that Earl could see that his son was still asleep--asleep, but not still. The boy twitched violently, spasms running through him, his head whipping back and forth and his eyes clenched tight. A small sob escaped his trembling lips.

The dog stood beside the bed, positioning her body such that she was pointing at the boy, shifting her head every now and then to glance at Earl. It felt accusatory. Earl hunched his shoulders and stepped forward, hesitantly sitting on the bed next to his son and reaching up to put a hand on his shoulder.

He'd never seen the boy like this. He'd barely seen any sort of facial expressions from him at all. Now his young face was a twisted mask of--what? Fear? Pain?

"Hey," Earl said softly, and he squeezed the kid's shoulder. "It's okay."

The boy gasped in a breath. His eyes flew open and darted around the room, widening when they landed on Earl. His mouth snapped shut, and his breathing quickened, shuddering hard through his nose.

"It's me," Earl said.

This did not seem to comfort the boy. He looked panicked. Earl removed his hand and looked at the dog. "Come," he said, patting the bed, and the dog stepped forward, nosing into the boy's armpit. Earl's son immediately wrapped himself around the dog's neck, closing his eyes. His breaths began to slow, become more even.

"You must have been having a nightmare," Earl said, once it seemed that the boy had calmed down. "But it's all right. You're safe at home in your own room, and I'm here."

The boy had buried his face in dog fur; only his eyes were visible. He opened them, and they were shockingly dark with suspicion. "Who _are_ you?" he whispered.

Earl sat back, blinked. "I'm--I'm your father," he said.

"Were you there when I was born?"

 _No_ , Earl thought. "I must have been," he said.

"But you don't remember," the boy said, and he sounded as certain as if he'd read Earl's mind. "So then how do you _know_?" he asked. "How do you know you're--you're my--"

"I just...I just do."

The boy's arms tightened around the dog's neck. "Then...who am I?" he said in a voice so small Earl almost couldn't hear it.

Earl swallowed. He put a tentative hand on the boy's knee. "You're my son," he said.

"Was I born?" The boy's voice was barely more than a sob. "Was I ever little?"

"I don't--I--" Earl closed his eyes, drew a long breath. "Of course you were born," he said, keeping his voice steady. "You were born and you were a baby and then you were a toddler and then you were a kid. And now you're--you're close to being a teenager."

"I'm eleven," his son snuffled into the dog's fur.

 _Eleven_ , Earl thought. _And he has that many badges?_

He moved his hand back to the boy's shoulder. "You're eleven," he repeated in the most confident voice he could muster. "Very close to being a teenager. And you've already accomplished so much. You're an excellent student and an excellent scout."

"I know things," said the boy, taking in a quivery breath, "and I don't know how I know them."

"You learned them, of course," Earl replied. "We all learn lots of things as we grow up. And you'll learn more things. Maybe you'll remember how you learn the new things. And maybe you won't. Memory can be tricky."

"Sometimes..." The boy hid his eyes behind his hands. "Sometimes I think my friends don't remember me. Sometimes I think I don't remember my friends."

Earl was having trouble keeping his voice steady. He tried to rub the boy's back comfortingly. "That's normal," he said. "It's why it's so important to keep making as many memories as you can, so you have more to hold on to. So if you lose some, it's okay, because you have others."

The boy was quiet for several minutes, his small frame shuddering under Earl's hand. Finally he drew away from the dog's fur, gazing at Earl with red eyes. "Dad?" he whispered, and it was the first time he'd ever said that, and it was as though Earl had been harpooned straight through the chest.

"Yes, son?" he managed.

"Can I sleep in your bed?"

The harpoon was twisting, and it felt like the only way to soothe the pain would be to squeeze his son tight and never let go. "Sure," Earl said.

The dog joined them, curled up at the boy's feet. Earl suspected, from the look she gave him as she hopped up, paced herself a circle to lie in, and settled down with a satisfied sigh, that she was not normally allowed on the bed.

He did not tell her to get down.

Earl lay awake for a long time, hugging the boy against his side with one arm, serving as a bulwark against the fitful shudders that still occasionally ran through his son's small, sleeping form. He murmured softly into the dark whenever the shaking began and continued until the boy was still again, and in the in-between times he listened to the quiet sound of breathing, took in the slow, steady thump of the heartbeat beside him. Eventually, Earl drifted off, and the next thing he knew, the sun was pouring in from the window and he was alone.

The boy was an early riser, like his father, and he often left the house on his own to go to school or meet up with friends. Earl had never particularly thought much of it. Now he stalked through the bungalow, sharp eyes scanning every room for evidence of his son's whereabouts, until finally, in the kitchen, he discovered a note on the table. "Went to Edmund's with Sadie." Earl stared at the note for a full five minutes before realizing that Sadie must be the dog's name.

So. His son had gone to a friend's house. That was perfectly normal. It was really no different than any other Sunday in Earl's new life.

No different at all.

Earl got cleaned up for work. On his way out he folded the note and put it in his pocket.

~

The dog went back to sleeping on the floor, and the boy went back to sleeping in his own bed. Everything was once again normal, the way it had been since Earl suddenly wasn't 19 anymore.

Except now Earl was starting to notice things. Brief, nervous glances across the breakfast table. Small smiles when no one seemed to be looking. Distant eyes staring at old photographs Earl couldn't remember taking or posing for. Once, an angry frown as the boy flung his backpack to the floor.

His son had seemed emotionless. Blank. Empty. But he wasn't. He just kept it to himself, for as long as he could. The boy was guarded, careful, closed. Because who could you trust, really, beyond yourself?

Earl could understand that. The only person Earl had ever even begun to open himself to was Cecil, and that had only ever ended in pain. He'd kept trying, fruitlessly, infrequently. Cecil had probably never even noticed.

It was so lonely to want so desperately and to never be heard.

Earl blinked, letting his brain catch up with itself, and glanced up from his bowl of Flakey-Os. His son was chewing solemnly, face as expressionless as always.

"Hey," Earl said slowly. "Do you remember what I said the other night, about memory?"

The boy looked up, politely swallowing his bite of cereal before speaking. "Yes," he said. Earl wasn't sure, but he thought he saw interest in his eyes.

"There's...something I haven't told you," Earl said, wanting nothing more than to look back down at his cereal. He forced himself not to shift his eyes away from his son's. "There's a lot I don't remember. Some of that not remembering is the normal kind of not remembering. But some of it is because...time is _weird_." He paused, tried to smile. "I was 19 years old for a very long time. Much longer than one year. It might have been a hundred years. And then one day I wasn't 19 anymore. I was the age I am now. I was...I was your dad."

The boy sat back slightly, blinking once, drawing a slow breath. Earl tried vainly to read his face.

"Um. What that means is...things obviously happened in between. I got older than 19. I must have gone to cooking school. And I decided to have you. And we got this house, and Sadie. And you started school, and you joined my scout troop when you were old enough. But--"

"But you don't remember any of it," the boy interrupted him.

Earl swallowed against his suddenly dry throat. "No," he said.

His son broke their gaze, turning his eyes down to his cereal bowl. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. "I don't either," he said dully, his face flat. But then, all of a sudden, the boy's emotionless demeanor broke. His mouth twisted into a grimace and his eyes screwed up tight.

Earl pushed up from his seat, rounded the table, and fell into a crouch next to his son's chair, wrapping his arms around the boy. His son pressed his face into Earl's shoulder, leaving hot wet spots on Earl's shirt.

"People are supposed to remember things," the boy whispered tremulously. "Everyone remembers things. All my friends have memories. Why don't I have any memories?"

Earl blinked hard against the burning in his eyes. "We'll help each other, okay?" he said. "We'll make memories of our own. We'll decide what we want our past to be, and what we want our future to be, and how we are now." He tightened his arms around his son. The boy drew a shuddering sob, sliding his slim arms up to return the hug. For a time they simply clung to each other.

After a time the dog apparently decided she felt left out. Springing up from her spot on the floor beneath the table, she began to nose at them, jabbing at Earl's ribs and nuzzling his son's leg. Father and son broke apart, laughing a little.

"Okay, Sadie," the boy said, smiling as he reached down to pet her.

Earl smiled too. Then he sucked in a breath. "There's one more thing," he said, because he had put this off for far too long. Trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice, he asked, "What's your name?"

~

Earl was in the middle of gutting a plantain, elbow-deep in blood--they were awfully messy!--when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. It was extremely unprofessional to have his phone on in the kitchen, but if he didn't, he wouldn't know if Roger ever tried to call. Thankfully, Chef Mason tolerated it so long as Earl didn't let it affect his work.

He finished with the plantain, expertly separating sinew and organs from skin and scales, then thoroughly washed his hands and arms and stepped out of the kitchen into a passageway off the dining room. From here he could see and hear everything that was happening in the restaurant without being in the way. Earl slipped his phone out of his pocket and checked the missed call.

It was Cecil.

"Hi, Earl!" came the cheerful recorded voice of his childhood best friend, the man he'd loved for possibly over a century. "I think it's about time we did another segment of 'Cooking Stuff!' Do you have any recipes you'd like to share? Call me back!"

Earl was surprised to realize he hadn't actually thought about Cecil in...well, it had been some time now. And he'd never really managed to come up with any new plans. He'd had some half-formed thoughts that seemed sort of silly now. Childish.

He had more important things to plan for now.

Earl found himself smiling as he dialed Cecil's number. He was sent straight to voicemail; Cecil had apparently called during a break and was probably back on the air now.

"Hi, it's me," Earl said after the heavily distorted sample of a man saying _I just couldn't eat another bite!_ "Sure, I’d love to come back and do another segment of 'Cooking Stuff with Earl Harlan.' I have this great recipe for pumpkin pie. There's so much less blood splatter than you would think!"

He glanced back at the kitchen just in time to see that it was engulfed in flames. Again. He figured he had time to explain things a bit before he needed to go do anything about it, though. The plantains he'd been working with were on the opposite side of the kitchen, and Earl could tell by the way the fire was spreading that it would be maybe a full minute before they'd be in danger. In fact, he thought, the flames might add a nice smoky flavor. The plantains could be tonight's special.

"Um, but listen," he said, forcing his mind back to Cecil. How odd, that now thinking of Cecil took effort. That Cecil wasn't the only thing he wanted to think about. That Cecil wasn't even near the top of the list of things Earl wanted to think about.

He smiled again, feeling sort of sadly nostalgic...yet happy. He was finally happy.

"I'm trying to schedule a little more time in my life for my son," Earl said.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Badge For That](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338863) by [Dangersocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks)




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